25 January 1989
Am meeting quite a few people from Adelaide- we always have the same miserable conversation about missing the sunlight. That clear limpid substance we grew up under. . . more than a natural radiance but a substance so particular and glorious - a caress to the pineal gland . . .as central a key to happy childhood as Proust's Madeleine. . .We can't know ourselves under these low Northern skies. . .our sense of 'well-being'. . .is lost.
If we could, we would like André Gide in North Africa, make Australia's sunlight immortal, we would trace it to lust, to love, as in;
"[I cry for home] where the air itself is like a luminous fluid in which everything is steeped; one bathes, one swims in it. This land of pleasure satisfies desire without appeasing it, and desire is sharpened by
In other words;
I'm Walking On Sunshine Ooo Ooo..(and don't it feel good..?)
Love and hugs,(Am wondering how I'm going to survive these winters)